Brings me yews to deck my grave:
Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heaven
When springing buds unfold:
O why to him was't given,

Whose heart is wintry cold?
His breast is Love's all-worship'd tomb,
Where all Love's pilgrims come.

Bring me an axe and spade!

Bring me a winding-sheet! When I my grave have made,

Let winds and tempests beat! Then down I'll lie as, cold as clay, True love doth pass away.

THE PIPER.

Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a Child,

And he laughing said to me:

"Pipe a song about a lamb!"

So I piped with merry cheer. "Piper! pipe that song again!” So I piped; he wept to hear.

"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe! Sing thy songs of happy cheer!" So I sang the same again,

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While he wept with joy to hear.

Piper! sit thee down and write

In a book, that all may read!" So he vanish'd from my sight: And I pluck'd a hollow reed;

And I made a rural pen;

And I stain'd the water clear;
And I wrote my happy songs

Every child may joy to hear.

THE TIGER.

Tiger! Tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night!
What immortal hand or eye
Framed thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burn'd the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire ?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand forged thy dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? What dread grasp

Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears, And water'd heaven with their tears,

Did He smile his work to see?

Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger! Tiger, burning bright

In the forests of the night!
What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

ROBERT BURNS.

1759-1796.

MARY MORISON.

O Mary at thy window be!

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour: Those smiles and glances let me see That make the miser's treasure poor! How blithely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison !

Yestreen, when to the trembling string The dance gaed through the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing;

I sat, but neither heard nor saw.
Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said amang them a'-
"Ye are na Mary Morison !"

O Mary! canst thou wreck his peace
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his

Whose only fault is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown!

A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

TO A MOUSE

Turned up by his plough, November, 1785.
Wee, sleekit, cowerin', timorous Beastie !
O, what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle:

I wad be laith to rin and chase thee,
Wi' murdering pattle.

I'm truly sorry man's dominion

Has broken Nature's social union,

And justifies that ill opinion

Which makes thee startle

At me, thy poor earth-born companion

And fellow mortal.

I doubt na whiles but thou may thieve : What then? poor beastie ! thou maun live; A daimen icker in a thrave

'S a sma' request:

I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave,

And never miss't.

Thy wee bit housie too, in ruin,
Its silly wa's the winds are strewin';
And naething now to big a new ane

O' foggage green;

And bleak December's winds ensuin',

Baith snell and keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,

And weary Winter comin' fast,

And cozie here beneath the blast

Thou thought to dwell:

Till, crash! the cruel coulter pass'd

Out through thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble

Has cost thee mony a weary nibble :
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hauld,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble

And cranreuch cauld.

But, Mousie! thou art no thy lane
In proving foresight may be vain :
The best-laid schemes o' mice and men
Gang aft agley,

And leave us nought but grief and pain
For promised joy.

Still thou art bless'd compared wi' me,— The present only toucheth thee:

But O! I backward cast my ee

On prospects drear;

And forward, though I canna see,

I guess, an' fear.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,

On turning one down with the plough, April, 1786.

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped Flower!
Thou's met me in an evil hour :

For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem;

To spare thee now is past my power,
Thou bonnie gem!

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie Lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,

Wi' speckled breast,

When upward springing blithe to greet The purpling East.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting North

Upon thy early humble birth,

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth

Amid the storm,

Scarce rear'd above the parent earth

Thy tender form.